German Conflict Resolution
by katreeny
Summary: Kink meme de-anon: Germano hate sex. With at least some hints of a plot and some dark corners in Germany's mind.


The inevitable meeting migraine had barely started to ease when someone _pounded_ on Germany's door, followed by a too-familiar voice. "Open up damn it, potato bastard or I'll break your door down!"

Apparently sending Prussia to help North Italy get his nation's financial affairs somewhat less untangled had been a worse idea than the thought. Prussia was little short of genius when it came to financial matters – something that had been very helpful of late – but he wasn't the most tactful of nations. He might have promised he wouldn't make North Italy cry, but there was a rather high chance Prussia had managed to do exactly that.

Particularly with South Italy threatening to destroy parts of his house.

Germany sighed under his breath and made his way to the front door. He might as well get all the headaches over with.

A particularly loud and vile curse – thankfully in Italian, a language the neighbors neither spoke nor understood – changed his mind about trying to be polite. Germany wrenched the door open, demanding, "What do you want?" in a low growl.

South Italy glared at him. "I want your stupid -" He poked Germany's chest. "- albino potato brother -" Poke. "- out of my country -" Poke. "- and away from my idiot brother." All shouted, thankfully in Italian.

Germany didn't want to think about what the neighbors would say. He _liked_ living in a quiet suburb on the outskirts of Berlin, but dear God the other nations made it difficult.

The other nation raised his hand for another poke, and Germany grasped his arm and hauled him inside, closing the door firmly. That extra he'd paid to soundproof the house was worth every pfennig. "That is _enough_ ," he growled in his own language, knowing full well that the other nation understood. "You could have emailed. Or called."

"Fuck you. You think I wanted to come to your stupid country?" He folded his arms – which was an improvement on poking Germany's chest. "Your idiot brother made my little brother cry."

Which Germany had half expected, but still… Prussia was there to help, and if the god-damned Italies weren't going to be useful they could bloody well accept what was offered. "What did he do? Give an accurate budget total?" Which would be so far in the negatives there wasn't enough red ink to print it.

For a moment it looked like the other nation would try to punch him, then South Italy snarled. "Fuck off. Interfering, pestilential, idiot potatoes."

He would have said a lot more if Germany hadn't sneered at him – these arguments were so tiresome and he was in a foul temper to start with, with his headache threatening to start jackhammers on his skull. "I'll take that as a yes."

The southern half of Italy was well-known for his ungoverned – and possibly ungovernable – temper. He'd raved at Germany many times over the years, often threatening violence, though rarely delivering on the threat. Whatever else the man was, he wasn't a fool and he knew Germany would win any kind of physical contest.

"You potato fuckers have no right interfering in our nation," South Italy snapped.

Germany raised an eyebrow. "Your brother asked for help." The statement was true, and should get an interesting reaction. With a killer headache inevitable, he might as well enjoy what he could before his temper snapped completely, and if that enjoyment came at the cost of someone who'd gone out of his way to irritate Germany more times than he could count, well, so much the better.

"Taking advantage of his good nature, are you?" The other nation's voice turned harsh, ugly. "Just like you always have."

"That," Now Germany's voice was edged with steel. Referring to the things he'd done at the order of that mad bastard with the toothbrush mustache was out of line. "is a lie." He stepped closer to the shorter nation, and didn't bother to conceal a cold smile when South Italy retreated until his back met the wall.

"Truth hurts, potato fucker." South Italy sneered. "You invaded him and _used_ him you bastard, and you're still doing -" Whatever he planned to say disappeared in a gasp when Germany's fists curled into his shirt and lifted him, held him against the wall with his feet dangling several inches from the floor.

It took Germany a moment to see past raw fury that sent his heartbeat racing and his vision red. He held his self-control by the thinnest margin, not wanting to upset North Italy by beating his abrasive brother to a pulp. "Would you like to find out?" The demand emerged as a low growl, and Germany realized he'd gone hard as he glared at the startled face of the other nation. At the mix of fear, shock, and humiliation that twisted across South Italy's expression in the moment before anger resurfaced.

" _Fuck_ you!" South Italy twisted, trying for a groin kick.

Germany pressed closer, using his larger size to pin the other nation against the wall, his eyes narrowing as he allowed the intoxicating mix of anger and lust to rule him. It had been so long since he'd conquered another nation, so long since he'd been allowed to even _think_ of it.

And – oh, the delicious irony – he could feel South Italy rising to the challenge, hardening against his body. "I think you would." A twitch of his hip, pushing himself closer against that hardness to torment the other nation.

A shudder ran through the trapped nation's body, and his olive-green eyes opened wide. "You… you miserable potato fucker."

Now Germany chuckled at the insult, low and sensual. "That would make you the potato."

South Italy twisted and writhed, but could not break free. His futile struggling intoxicated Germany, driving him to tease the other's growing erection without mercy.

"Let… Let go!"

"You want this," Germany murmured, a cruel smile curving his lips. "You went to so much trouble to earn it, and now you will reap the reward."

For a moment, the space between heartbeats, South Italy froze. Olive green locked with ice blue, and the smaller nation gave the slightest of nods, acquiescence more than permission. Acknowledging that his body craved the mastery Germany would force on him.

Germany accepted that with a slight nod of his own, his smile widening. He tossed the other into the living room, following closely and slamming the door behind him.

Before South Italy could climb to his feet, Germany hauled him to his knees, holding him there by the simple expedient of a hand curled tightly into the other nation's hair – avoiding that stray curl. "You know what to do."

South Italy tried vainly to free himself. "Like fuck I will."

"If you don't want a dry invasion of the Volturno, you'll do it."

The captive nation shuddered at the threat, eyes opened wide in fear.

Germany grinned, a fierce, vicious thing he'd learned from his brother. "And if you bite, you'll regret it." Nothing more than that: a vague threat was often more fearsome than a specific one.

"Bastard."

Germany answered with a light slap from his free hand – the angle was wrong to hit the other nation hard enough to truly hurt. "Get on with it before I change my mind." Before his erection reached the point where he'd need to leave and jack off or take South Italy regardless of his protests and arguments.

"Fuck you." But South Italy reached up with trembling hands and unzipped Germany's pants, adjusted his boxers so his erection could rise freely.

Germany's soft, dark chuckle sent a shiver through the other nation's body. "I will. Now suck."

For a long moment it looked as though the other nation would refuse and he would be forced to make good on his threat – it was never smart to allow others to think one would back down if one's bluff was called – then South Italy shuddered again and took him into his mouth.

Germany allowed his captive the illusion that he would be permitted to set the pace until the other began to tease with his tongue: then he simply thrust into the open mouth, placing his free hand on the back of South Italy's head so he couldn't retreat.

The man's whole body shuddered when he gagged, then Germany pulled to force South Italy's head to tilt back, opening his throat to take the whole of Germany's erection.

A feral smile twisted Germany's face as he thrust into the choking nation, as South Italy writhed helplessly, eyes squeezed shut and tears pooling at the corners, running down his face. It had been too long, far, far too long.

South Italy was nothing, a left-over remnant of a national identity long-gone. It wouldn't even matter if he killed him. Not that Germany planned anything so extreme: he had a suspicion there would be more of these arguments, more encounters ending this way, because South Italy was rock-hard, craving being mastered and controlled as much as Germany craved to master, to control. To invade and conquer and rule.

Oh, no, Germany would not discard so enjoyable a playmate. He would have both Italies, the North with soft words and gentle caresses, the South like this, his to command and punish.

As he felt himself near his peak, Germany pulled free of South Italy's lovely mouth – so much more pleasant when it was filled with his dick than when the other nation spewed insults with wild abandon. When South Italy slumped against his legs, gasping and quite incapable of resisting, Germany grasped his shirt and threw the smaller nation onto the sofa, positioned his trembling form for Germany's convenience, with his hips on the padded arm and his legs falling loose.

It was no challenge to reach around and undo South Italy's belt while the other struggled to regain his breath, to yank his trousers to his ankles, pull his boxers down to join the trousers.

Only when Germany pulled his cheeks apart to expose the entrance to South Italy's vital regions did the other nation try to wriggle free, and fail. The squirming made Germany smile, the babbling and tears as he slowly drove in to plunder the Volturno at his leisure, all brought a cruel delight.

His captive's protests devolved to gasped curse words, barely understandable as his body rocked each time Germany slowly pulled back only to surge on with a single powerful thrust, growing more shrill as the invasion continued at a steady, ruthless pace.

Germany rested one hand on the small of South Italy's back, enough force to keep the smaller nation from rising. He let the generic curses go, but when South Italy insulted him yet again, Germany brought his free hand down on the tanned curve of his captive's ass, hard.

South Italy yelped, straining to twist free.

Germany smacked him again, deliberately striking the same place, not letting his invasion slow or falter. And again. And again, until South Italy _writhed_ beneath him, wordless wails accompanying each new strike, helpless to escape them or even to twist enough that they would miss their intended target.

Once again Germany drew close to climax. This time he made no attempt to control himself, just shifted his grip so he held South Italy's hips and thrust harder and faster, until the exultant bliss of conquest overwhelmed him and his vision went white for a moment.

He finished leaning over his captive, his weight pressing the smaller man into the sofa, replete and not in the least concerned that South Italy squirmed beneath him, now trying to get his hands to his own unsatisfied erection.

"None of that," Germany murmured, pulling South Italy's arms back and trapping his hands with his body before he turned his captive's head to face him. The wide-eyed, glazed look satisfied him immensely. "You can bring yourself off in the bathroom."

As did the way it turned to an expression of outraged betrayal.

Germany pushed himself upright, then hauled South Italy to his feet. "I won't have you ruining my furniture." Semen seeped from the smaller nation's ass, starting to trickled down his legs, and God help him if that wasn't an enticing sight.

If he didn't get South Italy to the bathroom and out of his sight, he'd plunder the nation again just for the sheer joy of conquest. Not that Germany had any intention of telling the other that.

"You… you..." South Italy seemed to have lost the ability to form sentences.

Germany lifted him by his abused shirt, not caring that the other man's pants and underwear still pooled around his ankles, and slung him over one shoulder. To his amusement, South Italy did nothing more than grunt, though he remained painfully hard – Germany could feel the erection against his shoulder – and unable to do anything with it.

Thankfully the bathroom was only a short distance away, down the hall and to Germany's right.

He deposited South Italy there, and closed the door behind him as he left, grinning to himself when it took almost fifteen seconds for the other nation to realize Germany had meant what he said.

Likely he'd need to clean the bathroom after South Italy left, but it was worth it. He hadn't felt this good, this _satisfied_ in almost seventy five years.

#

 _Bonus epilogue_

Germany opened the door before his visitor could pound on it more than twice. He eyed South Italy for a moment, noting the furious expression and the first hints of a tent in the other nation's trousers. "Admit it," he said. "You're not doing this because you hate me."


End file.
